Softening perfection, and finding peace in the rhythm of daily rituals and gentle attention
This isn’t a lesson — it’s a quiet shift. A moment when I stopped needing everything to mean something. Just words, breath, body — unfolding in real time. This is a reflection on softening, on loosening the grip, on staying with what’s here.
A Letter, a Letting Go
I finally sent my father — a poem.
We’ve been distant since his falling out with my mother and my move abroad. I hadn’t shared anything with him in nearly a decade, though I used to all the time. The poem captured a truth — at least for me — and I hoped it might resonate.
It was about how life doesn’t always take us where we thought we were going — how we lose things, change course, and end up far from what someone once hoped for us.
Our relationship changed. We’ve grown distant. But the message behind the poem was this: even if I didn’t become who he imagined, the small moments we shared still meant everything to me. He may not understand that. But that’s how I see it.
I can’t believe I did that. As a little girl, I lived off his approval. And now, I’m learning to let go. It doesn’t matter to me what he thinks. If he likes it, doesn’t like it, doesn’t get it — I’m okay either way.
Letting go of old roles takes energy. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling tired.
The Writing Chair
I keep adjusting my chair and stretching my neck, trying to relax. I find myself wondering: Where is this going? But I remind myself — it doesn’t matter.
I always talk myself through this part. “You set the timer. You’ve got 30 minutes. Just write.”
I haven’t been doing my morning pages daily. There are too many little projects in motion. A list of books a mile long, audio courses scattered across apps, and tasks stacked up. But still — writing and creating remain at the center.
What I return to most is this: reading. Creating. Writing. Learning. That’s my sweet spot. It’s where all my interests meet, where I feel most like myself. And right now, I’m in it — that space where curiosity meets creation. It’s where I feel most alive.
The Fun of Living Aligned
When it comes to my real passions, it’s emotional writing, life lessons, connecting, and living in alignment with our actual selves. A mindful, fulfilling life. Honest. Present. Awake.
It’s about learning and unlearning, remembering, pondering, writing, and making things that feel alive.
All of it feels like a return. A soft remembering. A rhythm that aligns with who I really am.
And you know what? I’m having fun.
And when I slow down enough to care for myself, to be present — my work takes on a different energy.
Ink, Intention, and the Body
Which brings me to something small but grounding.
I should write my journal entry — affirmations, gratitude, intentions, prayers. I used to write them every single day, religiously, for years. Now, with everything else in motion, I’ve allowed myself some grace. Every other day is just fine.
It’s less about producing something and more about being in it. The moment. The motion. The practice itself.
I stretch my back. A little stiff today. A reminder that yoga is essential. I’ll need an evening session.
There’s not much more I need to say right now. I’m simply here. Tired, maybe — but nourished by the act of writing. Even if I get nothing from this session I can publish — it’s okay. I’m doing it for my health. For my well-being.
Oh — I am excited for my shake. I’ll walk around the block while I drink it. A treat I look forward to. A small joy. A true blessing.
The Gift of the Process
I’ve been thinking about this more and more — about being in the process of life. The unfolding. The detours. The edges. The barriers. All the little gifts along the way. The experience of the senses. Both in my body and as I experience the world.
The ordinary, felt deeply, becomes sacred.
This moment. This exact one.
Typing each page. Feeling my fingers glide across the keys. Understanding this is a creation unfolding. Not one I’m forcing — just one I’m allowing.
Later today, when I marinate the salmon, I’ll try to stay with it. Rubbing oil and herbs into the fish. Noticing what it feels like. What it smells like. The orange-pink of the salmon. The green flecks of herbs. The glisten of oil as it catches the light.
Even something as simple as cutting into a lemon. The force needed. The way the skin resists, then releases. The scent. The tang. The way it lingers.
The more attention I give it, the more it becomes a sensory meditation.
It’s the same when I sit for yoga. I remind myself to feel every aspect of my body. Every ache. Every stretch. The full magic of the breath as it moves through me. My attention landing at every point of pressure, every place of ease.
I think about the beauty of micro-moments. The zoomed-in awareness of it all. An experience that, when present fully, becomes an entire immersive novel — one that I’ll remember years from now.
Life really is a blessing. But we don’t always give it that appreciation. We lose sight of it when we drift into the future or the past. We lose the taste of the ecstasy available in each unfolding moment. It’s always there — we just forget to look.
There’s beauty all around us. We just have to wake up a little to notice it. And then… stay with it.
And So I Return
I hear construction in the distance. Normally I’d let it annoy me. But today, I listened. And behind the drilling, I heard birdsong. A soft, surprising contrast. And soon the noise faded.
I take a deep breath and relax. I return to my fingers, gliding across the keys. I play a game with my attention — letting it wander, letting it land.
Even imagination becomes a practice in presence.
I’ve visualized myself with my smoothie. I’ve taken it into my imagination as well — but without clinging. Just momentarily imagining the taste. The sun on me as I walk there. The breeze. The sweetness. Then letting it go.
The mind is a strange, beautiful place.
I pause, allowing the peace to wash over me. I wonder — what have I written here? Is anything salvageable?
Maybe. Maybe not.
But I showed up. I stayed. I let it move through me.
I didn’t need this to be anything. I just needed to be in it.
And that’s what I gave myself.
What This Practice Is Teaching Me
In the act of writing, something always shifts. Because you’re in it — fully immersed.
The same happened when I sent that poem. While writing it, I felt connected to my father, and sending it was a form of expression. I didn’t expect anything in return.
There’s something about the doing — the writing — that asks to be released.
Presence is just that. Not knowing, not fixing. Just staying with what is.
Being fully immersed in whatever you’re doing, feeling, and what’s around you. It’s about being here, with your whole attention. And when it drifts — as it always does — you just notice, and gently return.
✶ A Soft Echo
—You don’t have to know where it’s going for it to be meaningful.
— Showing up, even without an outcome, is healing.
— The body is wise. The ritual is the medicine.
— Small joys are sacred. Attention makes them holy.
— Presence is the gift. The rest will follow.
Thank you for being here 🖤
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